Ben & Andrew, both early 30’s, reunite as Andrew unexpectedly shows up at Ben’s door after perhaps ten years. College friends of the wild variety, Ben has gone “white picket fence” (wife, home, “Where’s that baby?!”) while Andrew resides in the globetrotting, poor, arty, free polar opposite. Andrew represents, instantly, a challenge to Ben’s sense of structure, to his idea of himself as a free man. Ben’s insecurity manifests through overcompensation as he takes the first opportunity to prove himself to Andrew – by agreeing that they will produce and star in a porno of their own making for a local contest, and that the only sex happening will by their sex. I was skeptical too, but now I can report that it isn’t as ridiculous as it sounds. From here the film becomes a series of strained, often hilarious conversations between Andrew, Ben and Ben’s wife, spanning the Friday evening party when the gauntlet is thrown down to the Sunday night tryst at the Bonin’ Motel. Both men endure profound-ish crises of identity – and it’s great! Director Lynn Shelton (who, incidentally, stars in the film as the model of a free, sexy human) shot the film in two weeks and relied wholly on the talent of her three leads and the potent chemistry they generate (pardon me for making such a comment, but filmmaking is almost 100% casting). While Alycia Delmore is a virtual newcomer, Joshua Leonard and Mark Duplass (of the Duplass brothers) have experience directing and acting. Leonard even hitchhiked through Central America in his teens, not unlike his character Andrew – until he was snatched up for The Blair Witch Project (“We’ll pay you four million dollars to stop wandering.”). I will not be surprised if many are not satisfied by the film’s ending. It left an odd impression on me, but not an unpleasant one. That’s all I can say about it.

What a surprise. A pleasant surprise! Not having seen Shelton’s other two films and knowing only the most cursory information about Humpday, I was expecting a relatively gay bromantic comedy. The film is as good as, possibly even better than, Rachel Getting Married (the first association I formed after the viewing; modern impressive indie character piece).

Shot in less than two weeks!

A morose screw-up policeman finds himself demoted to the position of Sheriff in a very distant, very tiny bog town, far far from the hustle and bustle of Copenhagen. There is nothing to see over the totally flat landscape in any direction. The town’s inhabitants – the same eight or so that we seem to keep running into – have been warped into virtual madness by the desperation the locale has imposed (though the landscape didn’t feel quite oppressive enough for me). Immediately upon arrival the town’s victimized skank is at his doorstep and draws Mr. Sheriff into an intimate little triangle with her violent counterpart. Describing where things go from here is unnecessary because we already know, but also because the film features some truly bizarre twists, especially involving character action and motivation. The film is competent and enjoyable enough… maybe… a bit… yet it’s a surprise to me to have learned that this curious deadpan would-be thriller is Denmark’s entry into the Academy Awards; this year’s Von Trier film must’ve been ineligible (I suppose genital mutilation never does go over well).

Claiming that your film is like Twin Peaks because it features middle-of-nowhere kooks is approximately the same as calling your work Kafkaesque based on the sole criteria that you find it to be “absurd;” Terribly Happy is nothing like Twin Peaks (and the Danish Twin Peaks Ripoff was more successful claimed by Von Trier, anyway, 15 years ago with Riget). I digress. The only comment I have to make is this: the film progresses along a through line which snakes in ways one (at least I) will not expect, but that is not to imply it is a positive step into uncharted territory… it’s more like an improv exercise led by a man with a singular, fairly misunderstood sense of humor. Also it’s based on actual events, the sort that make a noir of us all.

Remember how Texaco dumped more oil than the Valdez spill into some pits in Ecuador over decades and gave thousands of humans and wildlife cancer and other terminal maladies? …No? Ah, that’s why they made Crude. Ecuadorian lawyer Pablo Fajardo teamed up with fairly brash but usually endearing Houston lawyer Steven Donziger to bring a class action lawsuit to Chevron (Texaco merged into Chevron in 2001) for $27 billion in damages to 30,000 Ecuadorian natives. Malcontent to part with that sum, Chevron protects itself the best way it can, primarily by dragging the case out indefinitely and bankrupting those involved. I’m sorry to say that this strategy has been highly effective thus far (the case began in 1993) but Crude demonstrates major progress made in only a few recent years (2005-7ish) – although estimates claim the case could take another decade to be resolved. Crude begins as a familiar underdog story with our two hot emotional lawyers, but becomes more exciting as more momentum is gained, and bigger names become involved: starting with a spread in Vanity Fair magazine, propelling into an unprecedented visit from Ecuador’s democratically elected Prime Minister, Rafael Correa, and the sun finally shines in thanks to the efforts of charitable champion Trudie Styler (married to Sting). It is quite the surprise to see Fajardo on a major American television network receiving CNN’s “Hero’s Award” in 2007. What can I say? Fajardo is a hero. He was brought up in some pretty extreme poverty but his ambition carried him through law school. He even suffered through the torture and murder of his brother, collateral damage in a litigious battle (apparently his assailants had meant to apprehend Fajardo).

Intentionally or not, the film’s greatest impact ends up being a demonstration of the progress caused by celebrity involvement. From the beginning, the underdog lawyers are reaching out all around them to find the right set of ears – knowing that anybody with enough authority who saw their side of the argument would recognize evil and would not sit still. It can be argued that celebrities have too much time on their hands… so maybe this is literally what they should be doing. Trudie Styler’s involvement was the best thing that happened to Fajardo and the Ecuadorian Cofán village. Celebrity involvement – and the efforts of super video journalists, of sorts, like Joe Berlinger. Director Berlinger has previously chronicled and questioned justice in his documentary and television work, most notably the films Brother’s Keeper and the Paradise Lost films exposing the West Memphis 3. Here’s to Joe! Excellent work, again, at bringing this to our attention.

Henry Marsh is a thoughtful and skilled British brain surgeon. Surgeon, shot over only two weeks, follows Marsh on his then most recent trip to the Ukraine, where he frequently assists the local neuroscientists and does his best to improve conditions, and provide expert analysis where none exists. Marsh first had visited in 1992 and found the conditions to be practically medieval (there is actually footage from his ’92 visit and it does indeed look… gross. More than a bit tragic). The film’s bottom line, Marsh cannot see such suffering and not attempt to assuage it. In tow is Marsh’s Ukrainian protégé, Igor Petrovich, who has been working tirelessly to improve the quality his country’s healthcare. Most of our time is spent on a poor young man with epilepsy (the prototypical Soviet malady) and the operation to remove his brain tumor – which we witness in graphic detail in what is probably a 15+ minute scene. A harrowing, fascinating scene. “A normal brain has the consistency of very smooth cream cheese,” quips Marsh, who frequently keeps his patients at ease with similarly light commentary. Much of Surgeon’s interest lies in the perilous nature of Marsh’s trade. He describes the process as a sort of double Russian Roulette, which a gun at each temple: one gun representing the option of operating and its risks, and the other for not operating. Marsh frequently speaks of his strongest regret, when he operated on a seven year old and learned he had made the wrong decision; the operation crippled her further and she degenerated until death. And the film examines this wound when Marsh visits the girl’s mother at the film’s end. Frankly, brain surgery is terrifying and dramatic enough to warrant a documentary that could function without a single character. Surgeon makes no statement, has no cause other than compassion, with Marsh as its champion. I found myself loving the tone & perspective behind the film. I do love bleak Midwest, bleak Scandinavia, bleak Russia and now the bleak Ukraine. Maybe it’s the dead stillness of winter, the sky’s hued pastels, or maybe I simply find such a blankly threatening environment dramatic, and therefore tasty. I digress. Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, I was pleased to learn, complemented the product with a lovely subtle piano score.

Racing Dreams details the professional and personal lives of three competitive racers… three racers who have yet to hit puberty. Josh (12), Brandon (12) and Annabeth (11) race modified go-karts, capable of 60-80 mph, in the “little league of NASCAR.” Their accomplishments and ambition are the envy of those three times their respective ages. The film is bookmarked by five pivotal races in the World Karting Association’s National Championship and the filler – which could’ve been a major hindrance to the film’s momentum – absolutely sustains our interest and adds a touching and necessary resonance. Each child’s personal arc is a narrative in itself… I’ll try to be brief, but I find that I like talking about this.

Young Josh is any prep school’s wet dream. He begins the school day by reciting an eloquent, erudite little motivational speech (today’s lesson: “The choice is yours.”) to his entire school over the loudspeaker – but that’s frankly the way he always sounds. He is a business unto himself, the only risk he runs is being too business – the 12 year old speaks like 35 year old middle management (but the kind we don’t resent). Oh, and he wins every race he’s in. It’s too easy to use the word ‘driven’ here. His perhaps overly supportive father drains the family’s resources, as karting is not remotely an inexpensive hobby, to give his son precious opportunity. Note: each of the film’s families is distinct American middle-class. We can root for them. Cutest moments? Josh standing outside his trailer gazing at his trophy in the window (to complement a room filled with his trophies), and Josh stuttering in the shadow of NASCAR superstar Jeff Gordon who dolls out advice between autographs.

Brandon is a little firecracker hothead, but we love him. Boundless energy, thrill-seeking whenever he can, speedily motorcycling around his back country in spare time… Brandon has spunk to spare. His jovial, strong grandfather can handle his excessive personality and does his best to curb daddy’s bloody qualities when they perk up – daddy just got out of jail and is now awkwardly “around.” Despite Brandon’s unquestioned talent – he’s a freaking superstar – at the precipice of victory the previous year he was thwarted by a disqualification for playing too rough for the other children – and this stigmata will bleed again on the annum.

Annabeth is, I dunno, the cutest 11 year old ever? Halfway through the film she, without fanfare, suddenly has braces. There being no female NASCAR drivers, Annabeth has “something to prove” (this may as well be the film’s tagline). Like dramatic clockwork, Annabeth hits puberty and suddenly racing’s import – not the vogue among (or even comprehended by) her classmates – is called into question.

I attended the inaugural screening of the Milwaukee Film Festival and Racing Dreams was first up. Sitting directly behind me, unbeknownst, were all those involved with the film. I went in blind, and about 2/3 of the way through the film became convinced that what I was watching was staged – the kids, the drama in their lives, the dialogue, was all working simply too well. The film ended and the Q&A began, and it took me a few minutes to adjust. Now I’m quite surprised to find how much I enjoyed the experience. Any documentary works on the merits of two factors: the inherent drama within the subject(s) and the tone applied by the filmmaker. I’ll recall The Devil and Daniel Johnston: if ever there was a prime docu subject, it’s Johnston, but the resulting film was made by a person incapable of understanding Johnston’s depth, and the film is forgettable – a disservice. In Racing Dreams, from the get-go, I was very pleased with both. Curry demonstrates intelligence, appreciation and positivity that were quite welcome. I’m actually a bit wary to speak like this – I’m not normally so complimentary. But those kids were just too damn clever, charming, ambitious and interesting, and Curry was good to them. Each line (seriously) included in the cut contained a very successful balance of subtext without being hindered by sounding overly self-reflexive. Example: young hothead Brandon and the wonderful Annabeth begin, on their own, a flirtation which created an ideal subplot. With only five races in the film, plenty of time had to be spent detailing the lives of the children and their families, yet the pace never slackened – and it definitely could have. Another: Brandon is raised by his grandfather, as his real father had been in jail for most of Brandon’s life. His father enters the story and his awkward gestures toward his son, as well as his own riddling guilt and pain – and the growingly jagged trajectory of his lifeline – are captured and shown in so timely a manner that, as I said, it seemed written. Each kid is defined. Seeing them in person at the Q&A, now 14 and 15 years old, I felt that I knew them intimately. Plenty of documentaries do worse. Plenty of documentaries are forced, or the subjects simply don’t have enough going on to warrant the time we spend with them. Plenty of editors do not successfully balance the footage. It’s my opinion that Racing Dreams did everything right. To a fairly ridiculous extent. I’ll never be this nice again.

Winner of Best Documentary at Tribeca Film Festival, and a shoe-in for the respective Oscar.

Is it 1998? It Guy Ritchie still a trendsetter? Paolo Sorrentino DIDN’T GET THE MEMO, so in the spirit of Il Divo, let a topless Q. of Spades lop off his head. Knowing nothing about modern Italian politics, this sexy, capricious biopic exists for me in a vacuum of narrative fiction – a warm, happy place, but one that Il Divo will only pass through on its way to a louder party. The seventh campaign as Italy’s Prime Minister, in the early 90’s, would prove to be a rather fateful one for the allegedly stolid, leaden, indifferent and merciless Giulio Andreotti – “Senator for Life”… heard that appellation before… – played in a perpetual hunch by Tony Servillo, whose performance reminds me of Geoffrey Rush, so, B, B+. Andreotti and his shrewd paisano retinue catch the windfall of heaven when several conspirators turn to the authorities and detail Andreotti’s extensive web of corruption and murder and his messy connections to Mafia, Masons, Vatican (not necessarily in ascending order) leading to yet another of those Trails of the Century (is that meant to imply that O.J. Simpson is equally important as a tyrannical dictator?). Andreotti’s humanity is only demonstrable when he is looking back, haunted by the murder of the former Prime Minister and abject in the eyes of God – yet another tyrant’s keeper.

If the film were deep enough to suggest introspection we might even go so far as to call it “The Divine Judgment of Giulio Andreotti,” but Sorrentino found “The Celebrity” to be sexier. The film’s playfulness is appreciated but can’t escape from the moody, highly caught-up-in-itself tone. How many shots do we need of haughty, rich thugs strutting in slow motion? How many does cinema need? If the film feels overly expository – which it does, because it is – the tone is largely responsible. Semicolon: it’s hard to be productive when you’re Narcissus. I get the impression that Sorrentino must shallowly lust after this world of strategy and manipulation, tyranny and blind devotion, of Extremes which, Paolo may or may not notice, are unaware of the tab they are running up. None of these comments are meant to suggest Sorrentino is not intelligent – he is. And he cares. But he’s awfully capricious. More is more. I haven’t seen Sorrentino’s other work but I wouldn’t be surprised if Il Divo was a peak. Like his subject, Sorrentino seems to be a natural politican. The film biz may be exactly where he belongs – away from things which could feasibly hurt people, in places where life is little more than a big sexy game.

Comedian Patton Oswalt plays Paul, a New York Giants obsessor who is 36, lives with his mother and has long passed the point of being pitied by those around him – perhaps for this reason we are called upon to pity him. Most of Paul’s energy is devoted to rhetorical diatribes he gives on a call-in sports radio show, and the rest of it is spent preparing and rehearsing those speeches in the parking lot attendant station where he curdles (works). An awkward chance of fate finds Paul and his one Giants-loving friend following superstar Giants QB into a Manhattan strip club, and said QB is found to be less than welcoming of his stalkers. He pounds Paul to a pulp. An extensive lawsuit ensues yet Paul will not inculpate his attacker since doing so would wound the Giants in their season. Paul is a man whose obsession overwhelms his own sense of self-preservation; Big Fan is a character study of an addict.

I don’t know if it’s possible to pity, empathize and laugh at somebody all in one gulp, which may explain why Big Fan doesn’t work. It looks a bit too arty yet also appears terminally cheap, most readily apparent in the half-assed audio mix (mortal sin of film students), and digital images which are “incidentally verité.” I feel much of the problem started with the script. At times bleakly serious, and somewhat maudlin, at other times forcing misplaced, superficial jokes. Exmaple: Paul threatens to unravel the lawsuit brought forth by his brother. “You’re gonna do it?” “Yeah!” “Then do it.” ‘Fine!” “Do it.” “I will!’ Next scene: Paul and friend are seen looking up the word lawsuit on Wikipedia. That might get a laugh in a rather zany comedy, but not when it is surrounded by slow, quiet, broody scenes and a wannabe-indifferent POV. We spend so much time empathizing with Paul that we become an addict’s enablers.

Something of a big deal has been made over Big Fan. I suppose I can understand the hype, but it must’ve been generated by only a few people. Such a film doesn’t engender excitement; perhaps curiosity. Patton Oswalt is talented enough… but within the film there isn’t a shred of true pathos in sight. Pity is not fun. For all its ambitions and sporadic silliness, Siegel proved himself to be guilty of the amateur sin: pretension. Not at a criminal level, but not an enjoyable one. The film’s way unsatisfying conclusion forces me to utilize that unfair adage: this should’ve been nothing more than a short film. Big Fan is only unsuccessful insofar as one chooses to take it seriously, which Siegel does seem to desire. I’ll say this for Big Fan: I had not expected to appreciate Darren Aronofsky so much.

Ben Foster plays a soldier back from the Middle East – a very strong, very silent type, Foster’s apparent preference: quiet, smoldering intensity. Foster kicks ass. With three months till he is discharged, he is assigned to be an Angel of Death; knocking on doors and breaking bad [news] to the loved ones of recently dead soldiers (all of these scenes are experienced without cuts) under the tutelage of veteran consoler Woody Harrelson. Foster cultivates an oh-so-sensitive quiet cerebral relationship with a widow whom he follows a bit, Foster & Harrelson drive through their assignments and we get lots of male bonding, a few war stories, and more than a little time spent alone in rooms… Sorry, what was I saying? Drifted off there for a moment. It’s a big fat indie drama setup, and can join 100 more indie films about dealing with loss and starting over.

Actually Messenger was fine. Very understated – successfully so. The jokes worked. The timing was solid. Never really lingered too long (‘cept that kitchen scene). Technically there’s little wrong with it. It’s just me… wicked impatient. I was going with the film fine until three-quarters of the way through when quite suddenly I wanted to tear my hair out and/or leave immediately. I did neither. And that was for the best, I spose. Messenger wouldn’t have been endurable without the inspired casting of Ben Foster and Woody Harrelson. The rest of the cast are passably utilized with the exceptions of Jena Malone, who rises higher and whom we always appreciate, and Steve Buscemi, who, hard as he tries, should perhaps not be called upon to take on a charged emotional role (here, grieving father) – or Moverman didn’t know how to utilize him. It is his first offense, so it’s forgivable. But I really like Foster. There’s no doubt that he’s a workhorse and a very intuitive observer of emotional minutiae. He made what could’ve been a rather dull film much more engaging. And of course Harrelson is ever entertaining. Typically cast as an outspoken, loveable and intelligent enough Bumpkin, he doesn’t seem to have any problem with it. He also works very hard, and very frequently. As does Malone – and yes Buscemi too. So again: mostly great casting. Keep it up and no matter how slow your films are, they’ll remain watchable.

Extract & Idiocy’s Judge

Extract (2009)
Directed by Mike Judge

It appears that Mike Judge is convinced he is surrounded by indecipherable, oblivious idiocy, and seems to think he has no recourse but to inevitably howl along with the madmen. On one hand I can’t blame him – on the other Judge may speak their language a bit too well. Judge crystallized two-dimensional idiocy with 90’s archetypes B & B and after their film aimed his repulsion at interchangeable American offices, yielding further superficial passing chuckles. Idiocy itself was his next subject with still another everyman in the spotlight. Which brings us to Extract, certainly his most inane work. The doctor is one step closer to joining the patients.

Jason Bateman’s character owns a modest little chemical extract plant peopled by working class doofuses who daily bring the company to the precipice of ruin through sheer obliviousness to their duties. One worker (Clifton Collins Jr.) loses a testicle in a Rube Goldberg-styled accident caused by the baffling insensibility of the employees – however, being ‘pussified’ by the loss he passively desires to take no litigious action against his employer until, that is, he is manipulated into doing so by a perky criminal drifter (Mila Kunis). The considerably more ridiculous other half of the story involves Bateman’s sexual frustration by his wife, Little Miss Sweatpants. Bateman begins to lust after Kunis but cannot cheat without guilt. Friend Ben Affleck suggests siccing a male prostitute on Bateman’s wife, thereby creating a scenario of ‘mutual adultery’ in which no party can be more guilty than the other. Bateman, as reasonable a person as can exist in Judge’s universe, balks until his reason is compromised by Affleck’s continuous narcotic influence. This is the crux of Extract (a wholly undemonstrative title): man wants to cheat, makes things worse by using drugs, works it out without learning anything and ends up correctly communicating with his wife again by sheer accident.

Jason Bateman’s finely honed deadpan talents and timing make him the most charming and watchable of Judge’s anymen, and this charm carries a great deal of what is otherwise a directionless, anecdotal series of gags. The reasonably talented supporting cast does a fine job buoying as much of the film as they can: Clifton Collins Jr.’s consummate enjoyment of acting – and hamming – makes me think of a person relishing a popsicle in public. Ben Affleck plays perhaps his most believable role as a flaky airport bartender who solutions to life’s problems – any of them, including the sniffles – consist of ingesting hard drugs. And Mila Kunis never imagined her sex appeal would take her so far. Half of the film passed before I stopped laughing altogether, as I realized no momentum was being created, and really, I had only been laughing at pretty lowbrow gags; ex: one employee belongs to five terrible metal bands with names as ridiculous as “God’s Cock.” I can’t deny that this elicited a genuine laugh, and that such satire may be Judge’s most potent penetration.

Judge seems to me to be bogged down by conventional narrative, and his work could take on a new level of free-form zaniness if he made his own rules. In Office Space, Idiocracy and Extract, Judge’s everyman protagonists live by the rules of others while carrying rather heavy chips on their shoulders. They are terrified of being disliked and will put up with astounding levels of insensitivity so as not to offend the very people they cannot stand. They become so petulant in their pretentious patience and eventually throw vitriol tantrums when it runs out. Office Space is the best example of a man who learns to live happily by his own rules. But I do not see that Judge has truly learned this lesson, and it will be a dominant motif in his work until he does. His reliance on conventional narrative creates the same depreciation of momentum, as if fidelity to story itself is his problem. For Judge, less story means less waiting to get to his cynical satire and toilet humor, which, let’s be honest, is why we watch him and what he does best – see case studies ‘Beavis and Butthead’ and ‘King of the Hill.’ What are they about? Watching music videos on a couch, and living an unglamorous but decent life far from bright lights big cities. Films, however, are bigger and more expensive and more is expected and perhaps they should be watched in big cities where everything else is proportionally as big as the screens. And for these, Judge isn’t going far enough. I suppose I can’t entirely blame him. If I were Mike Judge, I’d also check myself when I caught my laughter taking on the guttural guffaw of the damned idiots.

It Might Get Loud
Directed by Davis Guggenheim

In January 2008, three generations of guitarists met in Los Angeles to ostensibly discuss the future of electric guitars. Whether or not that took place is uncertain, as Loud functions as more of a history about these particular musicians and their creative processes’, or as simply a jam session of which we get the tiniest vox populi snippets. Representing the early 60’s we have Led Zeppelin’s Jimmy Page, for early 80’s we have U2’s The Edge (real name TBD), and for the early Aughts hipster extraordinaire Jack White, who receives the bulk of the film’s screen time by far (hope you like him!). Introductions aside, *applause*. But not so fast – they might be giants.

Each musician speaks of his origins. Jimmy Page, from quite a different era, had to overcome the 50’s pop pablum know as ‘Skiffle,’ which is basically an unthreatening combination of our traditional rock bands, minus the rock and plus modernized folk tunes. Needless to say it was not loud; one could grow old to it. Jimmy Page, as a rather intelligent youngster and highly proficient Skiffler, helped Americans perk their ears and blink awake with The Yardbirds, and then finally discover real loudness through Led Zeppelin. The iconic Zeppelin image of a naked winged man, arched in triumph. arms to the heavens, seems representative of Page’s musical ambition; namely, to achieve orgasm (he did come of age in the 60’s, after all).

The Edge, who receives the least screen time, is a very nice man who responded to the right ad in grade school. He came of age in Dublin during a spate of awful violence via the IRA, saw devastation around him, and like a character in a Macross-anime, tried to save the day with music (I’ll add that it helps one view this docu if they share this almost mystical appreciation of the power of music). Edge played to balance the violence in his life with positive ‘good times’ and most importantly, for his own comprehension of clarity – perhaps he should be called The Center. However, without a war to transcend, Edge’s passion never appeared to reach the fever pitch that got him noticed in the first place. That’s the problem with being a musician – an inner fire is generally required, and inner fires usually only accompany youth. How many artists are career musicians, how many go on for decades? All I’m saying is ‘not many.’ Edge has a few doubts, but heads to his beach and keeps searching for the Earth’s rock (to Bono’s toe-tap).

Which brings us to Jack White, an odd amalgam of poor-black-blues-crooner and dime-a-dozen hipster party dood. His talent is unquestioned, but his modus operendi remains a mystery to this viewer. Growing up in a crappy Detroit house, the youngest of 10 siblings, was excellent practice for learning to make his voice heard against all odds. And now that I think about it, growing up as the only white family in his neighborhood might just explain why he’s so obsessed with being an old black blues crooner himself… but does not explain why The Raconteurs could not sound further from them. The Raconteurs may very well be simply the product of the success of The White Stripes, both bands seeming to me to be equally incidental and irreverent (lord knows Meg White acted that way). I know from experience that White’s Raconteurs have been prominently inspired by the violently inventive Mars Volta, and White appears to me as a man who feels entitled to succeed through his talents, but whose individual inspirations are somewhat bereft without the shoulders of others, perhaps destined to say little more than a hunched old crooner on a box with a ratty old guitar and his woes. But woe is White without anymore woes to speak of… in Loud he does go on to say that he prefers to suffer through his music, that nothing easy (namely technological advances) assists art. There is a flair of indignance in White, a dash of punk in his passion, but what does he rock ‘against?’ Out of the ghetto, he grew up. Now grow up.

Director Davis Guggenheim (An Inconvenient Truth) is too sexy to be trusted. Loud feels not like the youthful artistic spark it centers on, but like a corporate training video about those sparks. There is nothing raw about it. I would even go so far as to say that Guggenheim may just be a star-fucker… as such I do have a difficult time picturing a target audience who are fans of Zeppelin, U2, and Jack White. How old is this person…? Does he have any more than a generalized appreciation of music…? Does he listen to the radio considerably more than he listens to the albums he personally owns…? Loud disguises itself as a film about technical expertise only to be unmasked as a Coca-Cola printed with a nostalgic label (“You see, we know our history!”). Jack White speaks of other musicians, “That family of storytellers… You’re supposed to join the family, become part of it.” That’s certainly how White feels, and Davis wanted it too.

written by David Ashley

LINK TO THE TRAILER: www.apple.com/trailers/sony/itmightgetloud